Feelings were the easiest to read. Lupa, like all her kind, spoke in a combination of glances, snarls, ear twitches, postures, and pheromones. It was quite an elegant language, though not well-suited to rhyming couplets. Believe me, I’d tried. Nothing rhymes with grr-rrr-row-rrr.
Lupa was trembling with fury over Jason’s death. The ketones on her breath indicated she had not eaten in days. The anger made her hungry. The hunger made her angry. And her twitching nostrils told her that I was the nearest, most convenient sack of mortal meat.
Nevertheless, I followed her into Jupiter’s massive temple. I had little choice.
Ringing the open-air pavilion, columns the size of redwoods supported a domed, gilded ceiling. The floor was a colorful mosaic of Latin inscriptions: prophecies, memorials, dire warnings to praise Jupiter or face his lightning. In the center, behind a marble altar, rose a massive golden statue of Dad himself: Jupiter Optimus Maximus, draped in a purple silk toga big enough to be a ship’s sail. He looked stern, wise, and paternal, though he was only one of those in real life.
Seeing him tower above me, lightning bolt raised, I had to fight the urge to cower and plead. I knew it was only a statue, but if you’ve ever been traumatized by someone, you’ll understand. It doesn’t take much to trigger those old fears: a look, a sound, a familiar situation. Or a fifty-foot-tall golden statue of your abuser—that does the trick.
Lupa stood before the altar. Mist shrouded her fur as if she were off-gassing quicksilver.
It is your time, she told me.
Or something like that. Her gestures conveyed expectation and urgency. She wanted me to do something. Her scent told me she wasn’t sure I was capable of it.
I swallowed dryly, which in itself was Wolf for I’m scared. No doubt Lupa already smelled my fear. It wasn’t possible to lie in Lupa’s language. Threaten, bully, cajole…yes. But not outright lie.
“My time,” I said. “For what, exactly?”
She nipped the air in annoyance. To be Apollo. The pack needs you.
I wanted to scream I’ve been trying to be Apollo! It’s not that easy!
But I restrained my body language from broadcasting that message.
Talking face-to-face with any god is dangerous business. I was out of practice. True, I’d seen Britomartis back in Indianapolis, but she didn’t count. She liked torturing me too much to want to kill me. With Lupa, though…I had to be careful.
Even when I’d been a god myself, I’d never been able to get a good read on the Wolf Mother. She didn’t hang out with the Olympians. She never came to the family Saturnalia dinners. Not once had she attended our monthly book group, even when we discussed Dances with Wolves.
“Fine,” I relented. “I know what you mean. The last lines from the Dark Prophecy. I’ve reached the Tiber alive, et cetera, et cetera. Now I am supposed to ‘jive.’ I assume that entails more than dancing and snapping my fingers?”
Lupa’s stomach growled. The more I talked, the tastier I smelled.
The pack is weak, she signaled with a glance toward the funeral pyre. Too many have died. When the enemy surrounds this place, you must show strength. You must summon help.
I tried to suppress another wolfish display of irritation. Lupa was a goddess. This was her city, her camp. She had a pack of supernatural wolves at her command. Why couldn’t she help?
But, of course, I knew the answer. Wolves are not frontline fighters. They are hunters who attack only when they have overwhelming numbers. Lupa expected her Romans to solve their own problems. To be self-sufficient or die. She would advise. She would teach and guide and warn. But she would not fight their battles. Our battles.
Which made me wonder why she was telling me to summon help. And what help?
My expression and body language must have conveyed the question.
She flicked her ears. North. Scout the tomb. Find answers. That is the first step.
Outside, at the base of the temple, the funeral pyre crackled and roared. Smoke drifted through the open rotunda, buffeting the statue of Jupiter. I hoped, somewhere up on Mount Olympus, Dad’s divine sinuses were suffering.
“Tarquinius Superbus,” I said. “He’s the one who sent the undead. He’ll attack again at the blood moon.”
Lupa’s nostrils twitched in confirmation. His stench is on you. Be careful in his tomb. The emperors were foolish to call him forth.
Emperor was a difficult concept to express in Wolf. The term for it could mean alpha wolf, pack leader, or submit to